


Making It Right

by ElizabethisjustaKitten



Series: A Study in Affinity [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating John, Fluff, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Parentlock, Soccer Moms of Regent's Park, pointless case, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethisjustaKitten/pseuds/ElizabethisjustaKitten
Summary: There's a receipt from a flower shop, address in the heart of London and a mysterious meetup. Is it enough to make a case?(Or the one where Sherlock is kind of jealous and soccer moms of Regent's Park have a lot to say to that one)





	1. The Case of Missing Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this fandom needs a feel-good stupid little parentlock fic after that disaster of an episode today, so I'm posting this without any beta just to make you smile. Hope it does the work!

He had no idea when the singularity of Sherlock Holmes become a " _we_ ". Maybe from the first moment John Watson exclaimed  _Brilliant!_  On a crime scene and Sherlock's own heart started beating again. He kept referring to them in tandem, it that treacherous plural since he could remember without having a full grasp about what exactly it was insinuating. Everybody knew before him. They called it, really.  He couldn't believe it took him years to realise. 

_The brain of scientist yet he chooses to be a detective. What can we deduce about his heart?_

The heart part was the important one, not the conclusion of the mystery. Simply hinting that Sherlock had a heart to begin with was a stretch too far. But things changed and realisations were pulling on Sherlock's own reality since day one he met the army doctor. 

Now, Sherlock's own reality came crashing down. Slowly, with a help of tiny baby hands and awfully designated baby toys that were peeking at him from every corner of their flat. But it was in fact falling with only part remaining standing. John Watson stepped out of the ruins as to make Sherlock see him, and only him, with new eyes. 

Sherlock liked what he saw. John, his calm voice and strict regard for kindness, made Sherlock question most of the things he believed to be true.  His own mental defect didn't present itself anymore these days and Sherlock was feeling all the possibilities. The warmth that was seeping into his chest when Rosie formed her first words (it was " _case_ " and John was very angry about that) was a clue into the biggest mystery of all: Sherlock's own feelings. 

Being able to repress most human emotions for so long makes a very difficult scar in ones means to process such things. Learning to show emotions again and let himself feel for the first time left Sherlock overwhelmed at the most inconvenient times. 

Moments of cold deductions and reasonable explanations for things changed. Sherlock tends to be more and more flooded with emotions during these parts. And they make difficult to process clues accurately. 

_For example there's a certain receipt that came to Sherlock's hand a few hours prior. It's from a small flower shop on the corner of Royal Street and Upper Marsh. There's the Archbishop's park on one side and Westminster bridge just a street down. Both are very popular places for tourists and meetups.  The receipt is for a single flower, but it was expensive. The person buying the flower was nervous whether perhaps the gift would be appropriate at all, so he restrained from buying a bouquet. Just single little flower. And of course it was a gift. It couldn’t be anything else by the way he hastily ruffled the receipt into the ball and put it in his pocket.  Let's say a person has a meetup with another in the park or the bridge. It could be either, since the tube is on the other side, and he has to walk past the flower shop anyway. Sees the shop and thinks that maybe it would be nice to buy flowers. So he enters, followed by the doubt if flowers are in place. He settles on a single flower, paying cash, rushing to the meetup, putting the forgotten receipt into pocket of his jacket. Single flower, bought near the park, with intention of giving. So what can one deduce about happening of that day?_

"So what can you deduce about the meetup?" Sherlock asked finally, rocking the stroller with one hand and clutching the receipt in another. 

"That was brilliant!" Exclaimed Angie, the young mother of two sitting across from him. She kept gasping and opening her mouth in disbelief the entirety of Sherlock's short monologue stating the evidence. He rather likes her now. 

"Can I try?" Asks Amber, single mother that lives across the park in family house. She raises her hand as she would in school and Sherlock just smirks; Middle child, always not sure by its position. But he gestures for her to give it a go. 

"I think he is keeping the meetup a secret. From his wife or so. That's why he is in a rush and the meetup is such a long way from home. Also he is uncertain."

"Interesting theory," states Sherlock. 

"I think it's a first date. That's why the uncertainty. If they are meeting in such touristic locations he clearly aims to impress." Sais Shelly, a middle-aged mother of three currently rocking a stroller next to Sherlock. 

"It certainly is his best jacket," Sherlock smirks but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. 

"So who is this about?" Asks Joyce, a bit preoccupied with her nails at the moment to pay attention. 

Sherlock smooths the receipt and puts it on his tight to look at it. 

"I found this in John's jacket today."

"Oh no!" Exclaims Angie, putting a hand theatrically across her mouth. Oh no, indeed. She is voicing the exact emotion Sherlock is having. 

"Thought you were doing well. With your marital sleeping arrangements and all?" Shelly smirks at him not bothering to hide the irony. 

"I thought so too," Sherlock simply murmurs. And why he keeps telling these women all the stories about him and John anyway? 

"He is a man Sherlock. He needs sex to survive. If you won’t put up, he will go find it somewhere else!" States Joyce unfazed by the coldness of her words. 

"That's a very dangerous marginalization. Not every guy is like that." Angie jumps into it. Sherlock likes her very much. 

"I still don't know what the fuss is about. You are literally sleeping together already. Why not make it official?" Asks Shelly, putting one leg across the other and leaning closer to him as to get in on the secret. 

"It's not... we are not... we are not like  _that_  " Sherlock can now feel the red creeping up his cheeks. He wishes it away. 

"How other way could you be?" That's Amber. 

"Asexuality is a perfectly valid sexuality. He can do what he wants with his body!" Chimes in Angie. 

There's an argument happening around him but he doesn't seem to hear it. The memory of John pressed close to his body in the bed sweeps the reality away. That was a month ago. They are sleeping in the same bed now, because it's more convenient than the alternative of waking up Rosie with every nightmare. Never that close, or at least not on purpose. Sure, sometimes Sherlock finds himself with John wrapped around him, asleep. But he always wakes up first, feeds Rosie and never brings it up. 

They are living their peaceful life in Baker Street and there's plenty of cases but no immediate danger at the moment. The only thing threatening the stillness of the image are Sherlock's own emotions. 

"Sherlock, are you listening to us?" It's Amber. She is waving her hand in front of his face. Sherlock always thought these things happened only in comedy movies. 

"I asked you if you and John talked about it," she repeats. And of course, that's an idea. But how is Sherlock supposed to start the conversation?

_So I went through your stuff and know there's new women in your life. Care to talk about it? Because if that's the case, you can take the couch today._

No, that just won't do. 

"Hey!" Another voice yet again disturbs Sherlock's train of thought. It's Josh with his shabby blonde hair and a daughter that loves putting flowers into Sherlock's hair because " _they look like curly flower pots_ ". 

"What's going on?" He asks. Shelly and Amber are quick to go over Sherlock's problem and his deductions. 

"Dude, you got that from a piece of paper?!" Josh laughs after their explanation. 

He just nods. 

"Isn't that a far-fetched explanation?" Josh asks joining him on the bench. He is tall and muscular and Sherlock keeps thinking if that is what women see on him, because he doesn't see it. 

"It's very grim to say I'm hardly wrong," Sherlock mutters smoothing his fingers over the piece of paper. 

"Except when you are, right?" Josh slaps him playfully on a shoulder. Sherlock never understand the common practice with men hitting each other to express comradery. 

"If surviving among these women taught me anything, it's that emotions sometimes cloud our judgments and it's best not to nit-pick every situation. Our assumptions are often wrong." 

"These are not assumptions, they are deductions!" Sherlock mutters trough his gripped teeth. 

"Hey _, ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat_. Presumption of innocence, right?" And Sherlock suddenly knows why he hates this guy. He is a lawyer. He always despised lawyers. 

"He is probably right," Angie says after a moment filled with Sherlock’s hateful stares towards Josh. 

"You should just go home and talk about it." Joyce states matter-of-factly. And it's real surprise to hear such a reasonable advice from Joyce. 

"Sherlock, hate to say it but you are acting a little childish. If you want to talk about it with John, you should. All the good relationships are built on trust and communication," says Josh. Sherlock really wants to shout _What do you know?!_ But Josh has a beautiful daughter and a wife he never said anything bad about. By the way his shirts are ironed, he does most of the chores in the house without complaining and his phone occasionally chimes and he smiles on the screen on something his dear wife sends him. Sherlock knows because he has seen the sender on the screen during multiple occasions and Josh's text message sound for her is the "best of wives" line from Hamilton. 

"Are there any indications he is dating?" Sheryl asks. And of course there are. 

John switched he cologne recently. This one is more pleasant and suits him better than the old, cheap one. He started wearing nicer shirts, even if it's just around the house or on a case. He keeps a book on his side of the table, and he tends to do that only if he is in a mood for it - or more precisely when he keeps daydreaming and needs a fantastic world to hide himself into.

And of course, he is overall happier these days, but that could be caused by the recent lack of death-threats and stress in his life, and sounder sleeping regime. 

Does he go on a dates? No, of course not. He keeps around the house most of the time or runs errands with Rosie. He visits the park, but then again Sherlock tends to tag along on those days. Unless John is working and then Sherlock goes alone. 

The safest conclusion would be that doctor John Hamish Watson simply found a balance in his life he was looking for. But fate is rarely that granting to Sherlock. 

"Just go home and talk to him. You two have been doing everything backwards from the beginning." It's Josh again and he seems resilient in his helping. Sherlock looks at him in confusion 

"Backwards? We did everything just fine." 

"Let's see, you two moved together, then fell in love. You left him, decided that to protect him it's better to part ways. In the meantime he proceed to marry somebody else and you showed not before or during the wedding declaring your love, but after during your best man speech. Bit of a downer for dear John, if you ask me. Then after departure of the wife, you are assisting in raising his daughter, you two sleep together already and there's haven't been a single kiss. Except that one in your heads, of course. If you ask me, that's pretty backwards way of dating and committing to somebody!"

And by the details of Josh's speech, John must have been talking to him as well. Sherlock just sighs, putting one hand on Rosie to feel comfort of her presence. 

"You keep referring to our relationships as love-" he starts after calming himself down before saying anything blatantly insulting. 

"I keep referring to your feelings toward each other as love," Josh corrects him and Sherlock want's to erase that smug smile from his face. 

"It's the same nuance."  

"It really is not. Love is a devotion to the person. Relationships these days tend to be obligations."

So he is a poet at heart now, huh? Sherlock thinks, rolling his eyes. 

"What I am saying is, you should just talk about these things with John. It might be complicated, but you can sort it out together."

Sherlock looks at him with loathing in his heart. Considering that Sherlock never discussed his personal life with Josh, he seems to know an awfull lot about them. Undoubtedly from John's talking. 

But of course John talks to this man. He is just the type. He is tall and skinny, with shining green eyes and messy blond hair. He seems lanky to say at least, with his cheekbones sickeningly ascending from his face. And he wears a terrible designer clothes with ironed shirts and oversized rain coats. 

"Just go home Sherlock, talk to your man. Make it right!" He says with finality, turning his back to him, his focus now on his daughter on the swing. 

He indeed seems like a type of man John would turn his head for. He might still claim that he is interested in women, but his look implicate rather different.  

The debate is done and the weather is getting cloudy again, so Sherlock puts the receipt into his pocket again and leaves the women to their chit-chat. 

He heads home, stopping at the store first. He feeds Rosie, makes dinner (best he can, which is not very well) and waits for John to come home from his shift. There are two plates at the kitchen table, Rosie in her kids stool and a tattered piece of paper placed in the middle of the table. 

John arrives after seven, looking considerably tired and smile creeps to his lips when he sees the kitchen. 

"No take-out today then?" He softly smiles. 

Sherlock gestures for him to sit, while he serves him spaghetti. 

"Had no cases today?" 

"None that couldn't be solved in few minutes," he responds. 

 _I've missed you_ , he doesn't say. But the words quiver on his lips. 

"Met Josh there today. He sends his regards," he mutters instead, awaiting John's reaction. 

"Sherlock," John laughs, putting some cheese on his pasta, totally unfazed "nobody says regards these days. We are not Lanisters!"

"You've been watching too much telly," Sherlock establishes. 

"Don't act like you haven't been watching it with me," John laughs and a bit of pasta sauce gets smeared in the corner of his mouth. 

"Certainly haven't been enjoying it as much as you."

"That's a blatant lie," John exclaims still laughing and points his fork on him. "Murders, plotting, intrigue. You love it as much as the next person."

Sherlock kind of just stops when John pronounces the word love. His eyes fall on the receipt still placed on the table. John does not notice. 

They continue their meal, John chatting about telly and work and any other theme he can think off. Sherlock tries to keep track but fails horribly through the entire evening. He snatches the receipt from the table when John turns to take care of the dishes, and disappears upstairs to put Rosie to bed. 

He stays there awfully long time, fully aware that he keeps avoiding the conversation. He thought that the receipt by itself would be good enough start, but John failed to notice it and Sherlock has no opening line. 

He eventually comes downstairs, but John is not in the living room watching TV and the kitchen is mostly clean. He finds him in the bedroom, reading a book.

Sherlock knows that standing in the door won't do him any good, but he lets himself admire the way John is comfortably sprawled across the bed, his torso propped against the headboard, Tale of two cities in his hand. 

"Hey!" John closes the book when he notices him, tossing it on the nightstand. 

"You weren't coming down for a while. Did she give you a fight today? Maybe it's all the sweets you keep giving her." 

"She fallen asleep perfectly fine." Sherlock says and puts the baby monitor next to John's book. The truth is Rosie manages to sleep trough whole nights now and thank god for that. 

"Were you reading an awfully fascinating tale to her again and wanted to find out how it ends? Hope it wasn't a case file like the last one!" 

"You know I stopped doing that after she picked up the word murder."

"Still can't believe you did not know most of the Grimm's fairy tales before reading them to Rosie." John chuckles.

"I wasn't reading fairy tales, John. Although I would refer to them as didactic tales rather than fairy ones."

John is smiling fondly at him and it pains Sherlock to reach to his pocket and retrieve the receipt he has been keeping there whole day. 

"Found this in your jacket today," he says as he flings the paper onto the bed. 

"You have been doing laundry as well? I'm impressed!"

"That's not the point," he gestures toward the paper. John reaches for it, unfolding it to his lap. His smile gets wider.

"Why didn't you throw it away?"

"Since you won't tell me directly, you can start with that." Sherlock is stepping around at the bed now. He is too nervous and kind of angry to sit down. 

"Tell you what?" John asks, but by the smile on the corner of his mouth he knows perfectly well what Sherlock is referring too. 

"Cut the crap, John. I know you are dating again!"

"What?" Suddenly John seems utterly confused and lost. The playful carelessness is gone from the lines on his face. 

"You bought a flower for somebody meeting near Westminster Bridge. You clearly intended to make a good impression, since you were wearing your best jacket that day and you don't wear it that often since it's been sitting in your closet a long time until yesterday’s board meeting at the hospital. And you made your hair that day, because there is sticky gel residue all over that receipt. Now tell me I'm wrong!"

There's stunned silence for a beat and then a sharp laugh cuts the air. John is openly mocking him at this point, it seems. 

"Are you serious?"

That stuns Sherlock for a moment. He did not expect that reaction. Retrieving all his dignity, he turns his back to John, trying to hastily leave the room before he does something rather ill-judged. 

"Sherlock?" John asks, overcoming his laughter as Sherlock turns. 

"Sherlock!" He grabs his wrist in the moment Sherlock tends to leave the room. Sherlock harshly yanks it back, but John is griping him rather tightly. 

"Listen to me," John pleas and Sherlock stops in the motion. 

"Look at me?" John pulls on his wrist but Sherlock refuses to turn. His face is a mess now and his eyes would give him away 

"Listen," John whispers softly, hugging him from behind. He is kneeling on the bed, so they are the same height and his arms wrap around his torso, pushing him closer.

"What is near the Westminster Bridge, right at the waterside?" 

And Sherlock has to take in a sharp, broken breath in relief. He closes his eyes, letting his head fall down to John's shoulder. 

"You figured it out, haven't you? You are always so clever, but so harsh in your judgment." John's voice is soft but teasing in his ear. Sherlock feels like he can't breathe with him wrapped around his body so tightly. 

"St. Thomas hospital," he simply whispers. 

"Yes. And I bought that flower two months ago. Where does the timeline leave us?" John asks again, smile mirroring in his voice. 

"There wasn't a flower," Sherlock simply whispers, remembering. Scanning every part of his memory for evidence supporting his case. He can't lose to John Watson. 

"What?"

"Near my hospital bed. There wasn't a flower. You bought that flower day before I woke up. Yet it wasn't there. It didn't die yet, so where was it?" He turns to John now, questions burning in his eyes. 

"There was plenty of flowers, Sherlock." John simply states. 

"Yes, a bouquet from Mrs. Hudson. But not a single flower!" 

Is John lying to him now? It's that what's happening? He doesn't seem to lie. He is still kneeling on the bed to be taller, arms folded across his chest and his eyes, burning with anger. 

"White Gardenia," says John and these two words are enough to make Sherlock stop in the middle of his amok and look at him, really properly look at him. 

There was indeed a bouquet of pink carnations and one single gardenia mixed in them. It didn't strike him as weird to put one odd flower into an arrangement. He should have paid attention. 

"Got it now?" John asks tenderly. He is just inches from Sherlock, his breath warming his cheek. Suddenly he licks his lips and that takes all Sherlock's self-control. 

"I... I need to check on something!" He says, his voice comes out strained and weird. 

"Fine," John sights, sitting back down on the bed, resigned. 

Sherlock leaves the room, closing the doors behind him. He open the windows in the living room, trying to let some fresh air in, since he feels like his skin is incredibly hot and burning. It must be the embarrassment. 

When his breaths in the strands of cold night air and comes to his senses, he remembers why he left the room. 

There is one more mystery to solve. 

He runs the search engine on his phone typing gardenias into it. 

 

_In Victorian times flowers were used to convey messages between people.  When a person was unable to outright express their feelings of love for another, it was and still is a common practice to say it with flowers.  While any type of flowering plant will do, if you want to express your love and devotion to someone but don’t want your identity to be known, the gardenia is the flower to give as a present.  It signifies a secret love or an untold love._

 

 That's the text he finds among the first results. It lefts him feeling kind of restless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotation used from an actual page on Gardenias. You can find it[ here. ](http://www.flowermeaning.com/gardenia-flower-meaning/)


	2. Vatican Cameos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I just had to make the vatican cameos safe word canon

It takes John exactly thirty two minutes until he comes to the living room. Not that Sherlock is counting.  He is lying on the sofa now, trying to think calmly about the whole situation, but his head is a mess. 

John just stops by the couch and stays there. Sherlock's eyes are closed, but by the light being blocked partially on his lids, John is standing over him, arms folded on his chest, waiting. 

"Are you going to be a twat about this?" He asks finally after the long silence. It's harsh, but Sherlock deserves it. 

"Were you planning on telling me?" He shoots a question to counter his. 

John sighs. There’s a beat of silence, both man just looking at each other. And Sherlock really wants to know what John is thinking. He has no idea what John could want from this situation. Is he supposed not to react to the revelation? Does he kiss him, hold him, say it back with a meaningless gesture that will go unnoticed months to come?

John just sighs again. He just keeps fidgeting with the edge of his shirt.

“Do you…” he stops in the middle of the sentence and let’s his hands fall down. He turns his back to Sherlock, standing there for a second, maybe waiting for something.

John is about to leave, when Sherlock grabs his wrist and turns him around. He stands in an instance, facing John with newfound determinations reflecting on his face. 

"Why buy me flowers?" He simply asks. 

"It's what people do, isn’t it?" John averts is eyes, studying the floor now. His uncertainty makes weird things with Sherlock's heart. It feels like it left his chest entirely and travelled around his body. 

"Why gardenias?" He needs to be certain. He must know he deciphered the mystery right. Alas, he knows he did.

"You know why," John smiles. 

"I need you to say it," Sherlock whispers, letting go of John's wrist and slowly touching his hand instead. 

There's the electric moment as he feels the hardened skin of his palm. John's fingers instantly enclose around his as predator's teeth would around its prey. Their fingers are entwined now and Sherlock has trouble breathing. 

"To show you that I can keep secrets too. But you had no idea, did you? For the world's best detective, sometimes you are incredibly dense." John smiles tenderly.

"That's not what you wanted to say," Sherlock calmly observes. He is certain now. John's eyes finally tell the whole story. The one lost emotion that Sherlock couldn't name. 

"I am not a good man Sherlock, not even a great one. But I can try to be the best for you," John manages to finally say it, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock the whole time as they lace their fingers and as he mutters the words. It's a mix of emotions on his face. From endless caring to fear and anger. And love. So much love mirroring in his irises. 

Sherlock apparently waits a little too long with his responds, because John's face suddenly sags and he tries to let go of Sherlock's hand.  But Sherlock has other plans. His other hand suddenly cups John's face, turning him back to look Sherlock in the eyes. 

"I'm going to kiss you now, if I may?" Sherlock manages to whisper. 

John doesn't wait. He sways forward, finally crashing to Sherlock's lips. The kiss is messy, as first kisses often are. There's excess of teeth and biting, saliva smeared all over the lips and kissing noises that in the silence sound rather odd.  But none of it matters to Sherlock, as his knees buckle under him and both he and John conveniently land on the couch. Maybe it was John's plan all alone, get them to the sitting position, since he is now straddling him, having a better access to his mouth. 

"Oh Christ, Sherlock..." John mutters against his lips as Sherlock’s hands cup his arse. 

"Could you not moan other man's name while I'm trying my best?" Sherlock growls, proceeding to kiss his neck. There's fain chuckle replaced with another moan from John. But this time, the only name on his lips is Sherlock's. 

They are a conundrum of limbs and sweat by the end of the lengthy kissing. The only reason they stop is John suddenly pulling away. His lips are swollen, hair's a mess and he never looked more beautiful to him.

"Can... can I take you to bed?" John asks hesitantly and now it's up to Sherlock to exclaim _God, yes..._  

John takes him by his hand and Sherlock follows him to the bedroom. He is being seated on the edge of the bed, as John kisses him yet again, with all the force he can muster. 

It's a dirty wet kiss that sends flashes of warmth toward Sherlock's crotch. He is already semi-hard just from the kisses. John could feel it on the couch and he knows. It's another untold secret they both share. 

John is towering above him, as he slowly works his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pulling them and turning Sherlock's head for better angles. 

"I wanted this for so long," John whispers and he is now on Sherlock's ears, slowly pushing kissed on that spot under his lobes. It's almost enough for Sherlock to lose control just from that. Clearly it's a very sensitive spot for him and John somehow knows. 

"John, please..." Sherlock cries and tucks at his hair to return his mouth back against his.  John only gives him the generosity of a short kiss before dropping to his knees. 

There's a skipped heart beat when Sherlock realises what exactly is John insinuating. His palms are on his tights now, and he is working them up and down. 

"John," he repeats his name again. 

"You can stop me any time if you don't like it. Just say it and I will not continue," John looks up at him with all the honesty he can muster in this situation. 

"Go on," Sherlock commands. Before he can say anything more, John has a hand on his crotch, touching him through his trousers.  Sherlock reaches a hand toward his faces, to put out hair fallen to John's eyes. He keeps it there a while longer, caressing his cheek and circling his lips. 

John touches the heel of his thumb with the tip of his tongue. It send a rather emergent flash trough Sherlock’s body. Then John sucks his finger into his mouth and Sherlock has to avert his eyes. The visual of it is even dirtier than the feeling of John’s wet tongue against his skin. John is kneeling between his legs at the end of the bed, with one of Sherlock's fingers deep inside his mouth. The whole time he is looking up to Sherlock, searching for reactions on his face, as if he is making his own deductions now. And it's such an honest and devoted look. His cheeks are flushed, his lips still swollen and hot, eyes sparkling with pupils dilated by arousal. 

"Look at me!" John commands after letting go of his finger. His voice is firm and clouded, almost dripping from his lips.  Sherlock obeys instantly, as his penis twitches under John's palm. 

"I need you to look at me the whole time. Please, don't take your eyes of me," he says, working on a button on Sherlock's trousers. 

He eventually pulls them to his ankles to get rid of them instantly.  Sherlock is now half naked, with only a shirt covering his upper body. His erection is standing tall, right before John's eyes and he licks his lips. 

Sherlock wants him, really wants him. He impatiently moves himself toward John, but John pins his hips down with a firm hands. 

"Don't move," he says simply, looking up to him and back down. 

He takes his penis into his fist first, stroking it a bit and that touch only makes Sherlock respond in very altruistic way. 

John just smirks and put's his lips against the tip, exploring it with tongue first and then taking it all in.  As the whole length disappears in John's mouth, Sherlock groans and has to props himself on his elbows not to fall down. But he doesn't take his eyes off John.  It’s a truly marvellous view. John moves very efficiently with his lips perfectly around Sherlock's cock, sucking and biting a little, which -no surprise- Sherlock kind of likes. 

It doesn't take long. It's embarrassing really, with the excess of noise and incoherent babbling it takes for John to finish him. John eventually reaches for his own cock, rhythmically stroking it while sucking Sherlock off. And that look, _oh god that look_...

When John finally cups his balls, touching that place just under them, Sherlock explodes into his cheeks and all over his face with no warning.  The force of his orgasm sends him backwards, so he is now sprawled on the bed, incoherently shouting something even he can’t decipher. John is above him in the instance, putting a hand across his mouth, chuckling to himself. 

It takes Sherlock a moment to fully come to his senses. When he does, he reaches for John's still erect penis, giving it a tug.  There's a murmur from the baby monitor its faint, but there. 

"Ignore it," Sherlock says as John reaches for it. He gives his penis another stroke. 

"We woke her up." John argues, his words not really having any meaning as he melts into Sherlock's touch. 

"I did and I will get to it. She can wait a minute." He smiles, rhythmically jerking John off. 

"Yes, okay... _yes_!" John exclaims repeatedly. It’s not really clear if he is agreeing with Sherlock or is simply approving of his actions. 

It's a quick and efficient release. John muffles his moans into Sherlock's mouth and he rather likes that.  By the end of it Sherlock's palm is wet and sticky with semen and John is lying content on the bed with his trousers still halfway down. 

"Okay then, time to get to the baby!" Sherlock smiles, tucking himself in and buttoning his pants. He heads for the bathroom first and then to tend for Rosie and her -now resilient- screaming. 

John watched him with cloudy eyes that are somehow managing to smile on the corners. It's the lines around his eyes, they always tell more about him than anything else. But despite the loveliness of the image, Sherlock makes himself leave the room for the baby crying her heart out upstairs. 

~

By the time he gets back, John is in the shower already and the bed is cold. He lays there, contemplating the happenings of this day and the incredible stupid assumption he made earlier.  That mistake turned out to be the best thing.

When John comes back to the room, he smells almost entirely as Sherlock’s shampoo and his shower gel. He is wearing his pyjamas, but his skin seems still damp, his hair glistening with droplets of water.  It's the most marvellous sight and Sherlock want's to kiss him again, not really understanding these sudden urges. Were they always there, hiding in plane sights?

But what are the rules here? How do the limitations of polite human interaction apply to situations like this? He was never the one following rules, not even in courtship. But he really want to make it right with John. 

"She asleep?" John asks, corners of his mouth smiling. 

"Thank god, yes!" He just smiles back, it's an involuntary reaction of his body at this point. 

John climbs to bed, propping his body above Sherlock.

"You haven't changed." He notes

"Did you expect me to become a frog again after you kissed me? Because let me assure you-"

"I meant your clothes," John's smile is a wicked one this time, as he takes Sherlock's buttoned shirt just under his collar and tugs. Sherlock obediently moves his torso closer for John to kiss the corner of his mouth. 

"We ought to do something with that, don't we?" He asks, slowly unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock leans into him as John kisses his neck, slowly undressing him with methodical precision of a doctor. 

After the shirt is on the ground and Sherlock's torso is right there before John’s eyes, with a scar after a bullet hole catching John's attention, there's a long pause. 

"If you want me to stop, Sherlock..." John says, looking at the scared tissue on his chest. 

"No," he says immediately. 

"I mean if you ever want me to stop. If I do something you are not comfortable with or I hurt you, I want… No, I need you to tell me, okay? 

"Vatican Cameos," Sherlock says. 

"What?" John finally lifts his eyes to him. 

"If we need a safe word, I will simply say Vatican Cameos. And you will too. If you don't like any of this."

John just chuckles, kissing him again, crawling into his lap. And there's something about the way John Watson kisses people, with all the devotion pouring into it. It's the kisses that leave Sherlock breathless before John even touches him.

And when he does, Sherlock is already silently begging for his touch. He lays him to bed, slowly caressing his body, kissing every inch and moving his pants down to his ankles. Sherlock kicks them to the ground, his hands going straight for John's hips after. He grips him tight, sitting him down on him and he can feel his erection pressed against John's ass. 

John takes the edge of his shirt pulling it over his head and then quickly strips his own pyjama bottoms as well to match Sherlock's nakedness. 

He just kisses him one more time, his now fully erect penis catching between their bodies, making him gasp for breath as John slides his body on his. 

Sherlock cups his ass, putting one finger against John's entrance. It slides right in. 

"You got ready for me. How very presuming," Sherlock observes.

"You can never know," John laughs, losing the rest of the laughter in a kiss. 

"So you have done this before," Sherlock concludes yet again. 

"I might," John states, circling Sherlock's nipple with his finger. 

"Have you?" John asks again. 

"It was a long time again," he admits, thinking about his confusing teenage years. 

"It's ok, I'm going to walk you through it," John smiles wildly, reaching to a bedside table for a condom and lube, he must have placed it there before the shower. 

"Always ready, aren't you?" Sherlock observes, kissing his jaw and cheeks. John shivers when he touches his neck. 

"Always," he concludes, opening the condom. His hands are shaking a little, maybe because Sherlock's lips travel through his neck and one of Sherlock's fingers is still in him. He moves it a bit and John almost drops the condom. 

"Careful, I'm not sure I will let you walk to the bathroom for another one," Sherlock chuckles. 

John manages to put the condom on place, stroking Sherlock a couple times and lubing him up. 

They kiss after that, John straddling Sherlock, just barely letting him touch any part of his body. He is gripping his arms, pinning him in place and Sherlock finds it kind of turns him on when John has full power like this over him.

Finally, he lets him inside, putting Sherlock's penis right on _there_ and all Sherlock has to do is thrust a little to enter him. John moans into Sherlock's neck as he starts slowly moving.

“Fuck,” Sherlock just mutters into Johns’ skin, griping him tighter.

“That’s the idea,” John laughs, a bit out of breath.

They take their time, John controlling Sherlock's speed and restraining him when he picks up the pace, making all kinds of circles with his hips so Sherlock is slowly losing his mind. All he wants to do is grab John's ass and start thrusting into him harder and faster, make him come from the pressure on his prostate alone. 

John finally loses control only after Sherlock yanks him rather roughly to kiss him. He is clutching a handful of his hair on the nape of his neck and he can feel every moan John makes into his mouth. It feels like burning air pumping into his lungs and he wants _more, harder, closer..._

Sherlock is fucking him ruthlessly now, letting his frustration of John’s teasing before run through his hips. There's a moment John just stops after a while, his hands griping Sherlock's shoulder, nails digging to his flesh, leaving small marks that will be there the next day. And he can feel like John shakes inside, coming with his mouth still on Sherlock's, muffling every sound. He bites him into the bottom lip and Sherlock doesn't mind. He moves his hips with slower pace now, fucking John trough his orgasm, being so incredibly close himself.

It takes one clever move from John, as he slides a bit down Sherlock’s body, smearing his cum on his belly, kissing his neck. He bites down rather hard and that's that. Sherlock loses it instantly, clutching John so closely to himself, saying his name or not saying anything at all, repeating it like a mantra as stars dance in front of his closed eyelids. 

John is still there when he opens his eyes. He is slightly moving now, letting Sherlock slip out and lying on him, covering him with his whole body. There's a moment of absolute silence and stillness but it doesn't seem forced or uncomfortable. Just pure bliss, their hearts still racing, their breaths caught in each other's hair. 

They just stay like that until it gets a bit chilly in the room and the mess sticking them together gets uncomfortable. Sherlock refuses to move even then but John keeps telling him to take a shower. So they do, together. 

It’s all kisses and touches and soft whispering that get lost in the running water. They are both tired but the excitement from having each other so close, being able to finally kiss without overthinking and analysing, feels like a drug. It's like the water is washing away all Sherlock's doubts and John's prejudice. It feels addictive. 

They return to bed, Sherlock only in his robe, John wearing pyjama bottoms (to Sherlock’s loud protests). It's like fitting a missing puzzle piece into the picture. John snuggles close to him, spooning him from behind, burying his face into nape of his neck. His hot breath pinpoints the exact spot Sherlock still feels burning on his skin.  He will have a mark there in the morning. He doesn't care. It makes him feel wanted. 


End file.
